Paulina was a damned good receptionist. Nelson and Murdock needed her, too. At least, thag was her opinion on things. She wasn't the youngest, most attractive receptionist. In fact, she knew she was at least double the age of Mr. Murdock, and God was only guessing at what age "Foggy" Nelson was pretending to be these days.
So when the blonde with the take-out bag shuffled through the door and started spouting mumbled snippets of British, Paulina only stared at the young woman blankly. She had seen that trick a time or two.
Her nails, a bright red now beginning to chip, paused instantly mid-sentance on the keyboard before her, and faded brown eyes peered up knowingly at the young woman with the bag through pink, cat-eyed frames.
Without a word, lips pulled into a line of disapproval, Paulina pressed a button on the console that was her ever so neat and tidy desk. The sleeves of the sweater she wore were rolled appropriately only once, a small cuff, the barest flash of the flesh beneath the cloth and then those chipped nails tapped the intercom button and she spoke in a drawl without her attention ever waining from the girl.
"Mr. Murdock, you've got a visitor," she said.
Matt looked up instantly from his desk, the intercom on his desk crackling. The voice on the other end was too familiar. It hadn't been there yesterday. "Who is it?" He inquired, hand already pressing the button on his end. He knew the machine would be there, just like the stacks of paperwork left that now sat in an unusually messy sort on one end of his desk. The other end was taken up by an old PC and a rotary telephone.
"Blonde girl. British accent, says she has lunch. And that you know martial arts." Paulina knew that to be an outright lie. Matt Murdock was blind. A good lawyer, damned good if you asked her, but blind. He couldn't do martial arts.
Matt knew it was Rose. He didn't have to second guess. He could already smell her scent of wild strawberries over the over abundance of sauce and processed meat. "Send her in," Matt breathed back, waiting.
His office was neat and tidy, save for the pile of paperwork haphazardly scattered in a chaotic pile on his desk corner. There was a rug, greenish brown in a circle beneath the large wooden desk where he sat. Across the room was a small, sagging green couch, a favorite haunt of Franklin Nelson. Books lined shelves across one wall, volumes of law and justice, case documents and study materials. All of the books were unique in the fact that all of them were paper with hard bound covers. No magazines, no glossy pages.